


A conundrum

by tiptoe39



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Post-Movie(s), impeccably dressed men having sex, not impeccably dressed while they're having sex, you get my point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 08:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5198345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon has a problem. A conundrum, really. The sort of thing that could get him in rather a lot of trouble if he lets it get away from him. Napoleon is not the sort to let a potentially compromising issue go unchecked, but in this case he's sorely tempted to make an exception and let the chips fall where they may.</p>
<p>His conundrum, you see, is Illya's hands. Napoleon can't stop thinking about those hands on him. What's more, he's finding he doesn't really want to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A conundrum

**Author's Note:**

> Great thanks to @hils_k and @Jabber_Moose for their beta-ing and cheerleading.

Napoleon has a problem. A conundrum, really. The sort of thing that could get him in rather a lot of trouble if he lets it get away from him. Napoleon is not the sort to let a potentially compromising issue go unchecked, but in this case he's sorely tempted to make an exception and let the chips fall where they may.

His conundrum, you see, is Illya's hands. Napoleon can't stop thinking about those hands on him. What's more, he's finding he doesn't really want to.

He tries, at first, to ignore them. They're just hands. And Illya's just a man. Although Napoleon doubts that at the start, given how readily those hands grip the back of his car and rip it off like a leaf of paper from a notebook. And then, the next morning, they're back, grappling him to the ground and closing around his neck. Napoleon can still feel their imprint an hour later, when the twitching of Illya's index finger draws his attention. He learns very quickly what that means, and it strikes him as appropriate. Illya wears his heart not on his sleeve but in his fingers.

Napoleon learns too that Illya is formidable, that he's volatile and bullheaded -- in short, that those hands are things to be feared. But he doesn't miss the way Illya handles the clothes when they're outfitting Gaby for her Roman holiday, and, indeed, how he holds out his hand to her, like a gentleman, to help her over the curb. Nor does it escape him how carefully those fingers must have worked to bug his room so thoroughly without the faintest sign Illya had been there. Napoleon thinks about Illya working deftly with the telephone, sliding the small devices into the shoulders of his jackets, silent and precise. His face feels hot, and he wonders if he's coming down with a fever. He considers going back to bed. Instead, he dumps the bugs into Illya's cupped hands and takes a good, long look at the way they curve. It doesn't help the feverish feeling.

Illya stands almost a full head taller than he does. His whole body is broad and elongated. Napoleon's never been one to be intimidated by size, but when they work side-by-side, he can't shake the unsettling sensation he's being dwarfed. Napoleon imagines that Illya would be monstrously large in passion, looming in the bed, casting a long shadow, hands commanding as they pull a faceless somebody in by the hips, rubbing hot circles into their skin. There's a sick-hot moment when Napoleon imagines himself as that somebody, with Illya's fingers wrapped around him, and he has to stifle a swear.

His gaze darts to Illya's hands as they sit side by side in the helicopter. They're being advised to kill each other, he knows. And he notices when Illya's fingers stiffen, then curl around his palm. It's the first clue he has that Illya's orders might not sit well with him.

That ignites a dim flame of hope, one that Napoleon holds onto right up until the moment of truth -- when Illya catches the watch and slips it onto his wrist, a motion with desperate purpose. Napoleon knows then that it's safe to lay it all on the line. A few minutes later, as Illya empties the tape onto the table and strikes a match, Napoleon watches his hands again. No twitching now -- they're relaxed and comfortable, sure in the rightness of their actions. Napoleon feels an answering sureness as he lifts his gaze to meet Illya's, and he barely recognizes the sensation. It takes Illya's half-smile for it to dawn on him that this is trust. He trusts this man, and he could put his life into those hands. The sensation is so foreign, it's rather exciting.

He turns over an idle thought in his mind: his own hand, slipped into Illya's. Their palms flat against each other. Fingers interlacing. It's a nice thought, like a shiny penny. He keeps it.

On to Istanbul, and Napoleon charms women with head scarves and turns heads at an embassy party to honor visiting sheikhs while Illya breaks into the offices above. Later, they meet to review the documents Illya has liberated. Illya's palm and fingers spread wide over the crinkled pages. Napoleon measures them with his eyes -- Illya's hand is long enough, he figures, to wrap around his forearm. He holds the other corner of the page, and his own hand feels meaty and thick in comparison. Not clumsy, but something close. Napoleon isn't used to feeling inferior in any way, to anyone. He stretches his fingers against the palm of his other hand as though he can lengthen them by force of will.

They drink, late at night. Illya stares at him with burning eyes and murmurs something so low Napoleon can't make it out. Napoleon sets down his tumbler and cocks his head to the side, asking if he'd care to repeat it. His answer is a hand, slammed into the wall an inch from his ear. There's madness in Illya's eyes, but his finger's not twitching. Napoleon holds his gaze until he pulls back and stalks off moodily. With him gone, Napoleon picks the glass back up and empties it in a hurried swallow.

After Istanbul there's Singapore, and after Singapore, Brussels. Napoleon begins to doubt he'll ever cross the Atlantic again. He misses cosmopolitan New York women. And his obsession is starting to creep past Illya's hands. To his arms. His strong shoulders. His ever-present pout. Every mission they carry out together makes it worse. They're an frighteningly good team, he's getting used to that. But he can't quite get used to Illya's presence beside him. That is always setting off alarm bells. He's terribly aware of their proximity at all times. An arm pressed up against him. Breath on the back of his neck. A pulse beating in time to his own.

But the focus stays on his hands. Napoleon considers those fingers on him. Against him. In him. The thought makes him gasp and arch up and come too quickly. The woman beneath him is surprised. He hates disappointing women. He works hard to make it up to her.

Illya glares at him the following morning. Had their hotel rooms been next to each other? Napoleon can't quite recall. He weathers the glare with a satisfied smile, despite the quiet clawing of his heart against his ribcage. He doesn't expect Illya to be celibate, either, and he doesn't see why he should feel any guilt for being exactly who he is. The very concept of it is absurd. If anything, he should feel guilty for going on the mental tangent that caused him such exquisite anguish last night.

But he doesn't. And he finds himself fantasizing again, watching Illya clean and reload his pistol with quick, precise movements. This time he's enjoying it. A slow smile creeps onto his face, and Illya stops and asks him what he's smiling about. Napoleon's tempted to answer in graphic detail. Instead, he just grins all the wider and leaves the room.

Yes, he's decided. He definitely wants those hands on him. The context thereof doesn't matter. Clearly the easiest way to experience that would be to provoke him into a fight. Illya's about as far from unflappable as a man can be, and Napoleon should have no problem riling him up until they're grappling like a pair of chimpanzees. It's so easy, it's almost criminal.

Only Napoleon keeps catching himself being nice.

They're standing on side-by-side balconies, admiring a sunrise. At least, Napoleon's admiring it. Illya could be planning to punch it out, for all Napoleon knows. Something strikes him at that moment, and in a fit of what might be temporary madness, he leans over the balcony and calls out a good morning. Illya casts suspicious eyes in his direction.

"Come over," Napoleon says with a winning smile. "I've made coffee."

Illya goes inside without an answering smile, without a word. Napoleon wonders if he's ruined the man's morning. But a few seconds later, there's a knock at his door.

They drink coffee and eat pastry in relative silence, leaning over the railing side by side as the sun climbs orange and fat in the sky. Just standing next to him like this is oddly thrilling. In the absence of words, potential hangs heavy in the air around them. They could strike up a conversation at any time. Things could turn sour and they could come to blows. Illya could leave again without saying a word. Anything and everything could happen.

But nothing _is_ happening. Lack of action irks Napoleon. So he acts. Nothing outrageous, nothing overt. He simply lifts a hand and touches the back of Illya's shoulder very gently. 

Illya leans into the touch.

A moment later -- as Napoleon's mind is still reeling -- he comes to his senses, stiffens, and wheels. He's gone from the hotel room in another second, and he does not re-emerge onto his own balcony.

Well. That was apparently provocation of some sort.

Illya is getting sloppy. That morning, he completely misses one of the bugs Napoleon leaves in his room. It's a regular exchange now, like they're swapping Christmas presents. But Illya brings him six after his customary mid-morning sweep, and Napoleon left seven last night. Like a giddy child, Napoleon tunes in, though all he really hears is a few footsteps and an occasional grunt. Then the dialing of a phone, and all right, that has the potential to be interesting. Napoleon listens in.

"Yes. This is Kuryakin. I want to know about my request."

Silence. Sadly, the bug Illya left was not the one on the phone, so Napoleon can hear only one side of the conversation.

"Transfer must happen soon. I cannot work."

His voice is hard, the words staccato as they make their staticky way into Napoleon's ears. For the second time in a day, Napoleon's mind is somersaulting wildly. A transfer? Why, and how long has he wanted it? What has Napoleon done to drive him away? The obvious answer seems far too simplistic. Illya is a spy, after all. He must be used to uncomfortable intimacies. Still, Napoleon frets. He's not a man who regrets things, but he could have made some different choices. Then again, perhaps Illya's request has nothing to do with him. Napoleon's very aware of his own tendency to make everything about Napoleon Solo.

Despite Illya's assertion on the telephone that he can't work, he does a dandy job of provoking a firefight at the National Museum, an ugly but necessary distraction as Gaby whisks a person of interest out of the city and then the country. Illya and Napoleon take shots from behind marble columns and witness the riddling of precious artifacts with bullet holes. A piece of Napoleon's heart breaks at the destruction of great art, but Illya's never been particular about the incidentals.

They dash into a stairwell and sneak out on a lower floor, finding a tucked-away room in which to huddle until the militia goons have gone. Illya leans over a low table, breathing heavily. Napoleon sags against the wall. "Won't you miss this when you're gone?" he teases.

Illya casts suspicious eyes on him.

"Your transfer, Peril. Did you think I wouldn't find out?"

Napoleon's wondered what Illya's response would be. It turns out he reacts like a startled cat. Big eyes, skittish movements. If he has hair on his back, Napoleon has no doubt it's standing on end.

"I'm just curious as to why," he goes on. "Things have been going so well."

Illya raises his hands and slams them against the table, hard. His eyes are dark.

"I'll miss you terribly. We've built up such a rapport."

Those dark eyes flash as they catch Napoleon's. All at once Illya's advancing on him. "This is your fault," he says, his voice low and restrained. "You drove me to this."

"And what have I done?" Napoleon's goading him and he knows it, but if his theory is right... well, then, he simply has to know.

A moment later, they're in a very familiar position. Napoleon against a wall, Illya with a palm slammed into the concrete beside his head. But this time Illya's just looking at him, eyes boring into his. Along with the anger in his gaze, there's an emotion Napoleon thinks he recognizes, but he can't be sure.

"Illya," he offers, softly, and the name feels funny on his tongue.

Illya leans in close. His free hand lands, soft, on Napoleon's chin.

At last, a hand on him. A little thrill of triumph goes through Napoleon, but the feeling is incomplete. One hand is only half of what he's been yearning for. And Napoleon's too close to that fantasy to allow it to slip away. He lifts his own hand and, with a firm tug, pulls Illya's other arm down from the wall, guiding Illya's palm to his face.

Illya whispers a Russian curse. Napoleon smiles as gently as he knows how. He could stay just like this, with Illya cupping his face and staring at him, all night long. He honestly doesn't need anything more.

But Illya does, if the weight of the sudden kiss is any indication.

His lips fall to Napoleon's in a second; a wild wave of excitement floods downward through Napoleon's body, and his mouth slips open in surrender. He presses forward, his body going flush against Illya's. The sweet hot scent of man suffuses his nostrils, and he inhales sharply, as though he could hold it all in. His fingers are animals of their own, and they scrabble their way up Illya's sleeves to his collar, hook behind his neck. Illya's mouth is an unrelenting punishment. Napoleon takes it all and begs for more.

Illya swipes his tongue against Napoleon's and makes a low noise. It sounds like a warning bell in Napoleon's ears, but he's so far past warnings, past any semblance of sanity or thought. All he knows is the immense weight of Illya against him, the lock of those hands  that have fallen to his hips. Their bodies are one slim, taut line. Illya's hard against him, and the feeling rips a moan from Napoleon's throat that he's only used to eliciting in others. What a sensation, to have it pulled out of him instead.

Footsteps sound beyond the wall. They freeze, lip to lip.

"Cowboy." A hard word, up against his mouth.

"Mm." Napoleon finally has the sense to break free.

"Hide."

They flatten themselves against the wall behind the doorway. Illya raises a ready fist. The door rattles and opens. A flashlight illuminates the back wall.

But it sweeps from side to side only briefly and is gone. The footsteps retreat up the stairs and away. Napoleon sighs. They were too lucky that time. Sloppy and lucky. And Napoleon can't find it in himself to regret a moment of it.

He glances up at Illya. The hard profile is unmoving, brow still furrowed as he listens intently. Napoleon clears his throat. "We should go." Illya holds up one finger, pauses, then nods. He never looks at Napoleon. Single file, they sneak out of the room and down the back stairs to an exit.

They steal across alleyways, turn zigzag corners, and emerge on a busy street a quarter-mile from the museum. Napoleon saunters to the curb and hails a cab like he's just another busy Belgian at the end of a long day. He and Illya slide in side-by-side to the back seat of a rusted green taxi, and they set off toward their hotel.

Illya still doesn't look at him. It irks Napoleon; is Illya really going to pretend that the universe hasn't shifted under their feet? Unless it hasn't, not for him. Perhaps this is par for the course in the Russian spy trade. Perhaps Illya feels nothing.

And perhaps Napoleon is the Duchess of York. He knows what he felt, and he knows how Illya reacted. This is just Illya's way of infuriating him further. Napoleon's not going to let that stand. He slides his hand toward Illya's on the seat and touches their little fingers together, just briefly.

Illya takes the bait. He casts a glance at Napoleon, who offers up a cloying smile.

Harrumphing, Illya snatches both his hand and his gaze away. As he stares obstinately out the window, Napoleon tries very, very hard not to grin.

They arrive at the hotel and climb the three flights of stairs to their floor. Napoleon's room is down a side corridor from the main hallway, and where the hall branches off, he turns.

Illya catches his wrist. "Where are you going?"

Napoleon's all innocence. "My room."

That little twitch of Illya's jaw! Napoleon wants to capture it on film for posterity. "We are going to _my_ room."

"Are you sure about that, Peril? Something tells me you're not as well... equipped."

For a moment he's not sure Illya catches his meaning. But then comes the old familiar growl. "Your room," Illya agrees grudgingly.

He's all grumbles down the hallway, and when the door closes behind him he stands in the middle of Napoleon's room, a surly statue. Napoleon drops his jacket on a chair and glides to the side table. "Shall I offer you a drink? I'm assuming that at the very least, that would--"

Illya's eyes are on him. His words dry up.

One quick stride toward him. Two. Napoleon takes the final step himself to crush the distance between them. He grabs Illya's arms, and Illya takes Napoleon's face in two cupped hands. One moment of agonized staring, and then they're kissing again. This time Napoleon gives as good as he gets, brutalizing Illya's mouth with nips and long licks. Illya makes a wild, low noise against his mouth. Napoleon wants to smile, but he groans instead.

Illya's hands, those glorious objects of Napoleon's desire, move impatiently from jaw to shoulder to waist to hip, and when they curl around Napoleon's ass and cup him close, Napoleon thinks he's going to die. It's a feeling he's quite familiar with, but no imminent death has ever been as sweet as this.

He pulls at Illya's shirt. Illya resists. "Not yet, not yet," he mumbles into the kiss.

"Why on earth not?" Napoleon protests. Still they're kissing, neither of them willing to wander more than a breath away.

"Shh," is Illya's response. Napoleon shouldn't take so well to being shushed, but he's too intoxicated with Illya's lips to fight. He gives up on the shirt and slides his hands up to Illya's jaw instead, cupping it lightly. The fine hairs prickle at his fingertips.

Illya turns, breaking the kiss, and sucks one of Napoleon's fingertips into his mouth. Napoleon gasps, and he watches with wide eyes as his index finger disappears between Illya's lips. Finger-sucking shouldn't feel this good, it shouldn't punch at his gut and make his cock throb, but the wetness and the suction are robbing Napoleon of his sense. He pushes desperate kisses into Illya's neck, moaning low against the skin, as his fingers are assaulted. Illya's name rises to his lips, and he tries to bite it back. When Illya sucks hard on three of his fingers, he fails spectacularly.

"Mm." Illya smiles around his fingers and pulls off. "I like when you call my name, Cowboy."

"Sick of 'Peril,' then?" Napoleon's breaths are coming fast and short, and all he wants is Illya's mouth back on him. "Fair's fair, you know."

"Your name is... long," Illya says, and bends to kiss Napoleon's neck. Lightning flies through Napoleon's body, and he grits his teeth to keep from crying out again. If he had known how weak he'd be against Illya's kisses, he'd never have started this. It's utterly humiliating. And yet, there's the telltale jut of Illya's erection moving against his body, looking for friction. Perhaps he's not the only weak one.

"You know... ah..." Napoleon takes in long, threading breaths. "Perhaps the bed might... be.. a better..."

Illya pauses, mouth still pressed against Napoleon's skin. "Bed, yes," he mumbles. Even the rumble of his voice is giving Napoleon goosebumps. Damn. Napoleon's going to have to get it together if he's going to live to see tomorrow.

He gets the feeling Illya would be happy to lift him up and carry him to the bed, but that won't do. Taking a cleansing gulp of air, he pushes Illya off him and saunters to his suitcase. In the pocket is a little jar of something he keeps mostly for his own enjoyment but is never afraid to use with company. "We'll need this," he says, placing the jar on the nightstand beside the bed.

The smile he gets from Illya is almost frightening. "You'll need it, yes."

His implication is clear. Napoleon puffs up his chest. "Now, come on. We haven't decided on that."

"I have decided." Illya advances on him.

Napoleon's a worldly man, but he does have at least a certain semblance of masculinity to protect. "Shouldn't this be a mutual agreement?"

Illya smirks. "You don't want? Fine. I go back to my room." He makes a show of turning and stepping away.

"Well." Napoleon slides a hand through his hair and smiles ruefully. "It's been a while, but there's something to be said for a variety of experience, I suppose."

"So we agree?" Even with Illya's back turned, Napoleon knows very well the smirk of triumph that must be on his face.

He sighs. "We agree." And then, almost shyly: "Can we... um, resume?"

Illya's smile is not just triumphant but predatory. So much for a semblance of masculinity.

It's a moment of defeat for Napoleon, but just a moment, and it's swept away with the force of Illya's kiss. They tumble onto the bed, side by side at first, but Illya is quick to pin Napoleon to the mattress. Napoleon groans and grabs at him. Defeat, maybe, but this giant above him is grinding their hips together, making low noises in his throat, and it tastes more like victory.

"Off," he grunts, pulling again at Illya's shirt, and this time Illya listens. He rears up onto his knees and pulls off his sweater in a single motion. Napoleon looks up at him with wide eyes. Finely toned muscles and a soft tangle of blond hair, every inch of him male and sculpted. Napoleon wants, so keenly that his hips pump upward at the air. He reaches out and guides Illya down.

Fingers pressed against Illya's ribs, tasting kisses softer and sweeter than they have any right to be, Napoleon feels as though he's dropped into a dream world. This can't be real.  Illya can't be murmuring those little Russian phrases, can't be kissing down his neck again. Illya's hands can't possibly be at his zipper, working him out of his trousers. He certainly can't be allowing Napoleon to run his fingers across those taut muscles and up the line of his neck to his jaw. It's all impossible, and Napoleon's drunk on it, as far gone as he ever remembers being. "Illya," he murmurs, amazed again at the sound of the name.

Illya grunts against his skin. "Solo," he mutters.

Napoleon's heart stops. It's the first time Illya has used his name in he doesn't know how long. "What?" he whispers, afraid of what might come next.

Fingers tug on his trousers. "Out of these."

And Napoleon wants to laugh, because of course it's nothing momentous. Somehow he's let himself get romantic. Kicking the accursed pants off, he catches Illya's eye and offers a cocky smile. "About time."

They strip, hastily, and even when Illya's naked Napoleon's attention is still on his hands. Soon they'll be on his body, and Napoleon's skin is hot just anticipating their touch. When Illya settles onto his knees at Napoleon's feet, it's the worst kind of tease. Napoleon watches those hands reach for him as though in slow motion. He needs the touch now, and now seems a terribly long way away.

But where will it happen? Napoleon's skin is singing with want. Perhaps Illya will reach for his hand. Perhaps he'll run a palm along Napoleon's stomach. Perhaps -- but never in a million years does Napoleon think Illya will -- but is he --

Illya takes firm hold of Napoleon's cock and curls his fingers around it.

Napoleon's mind goes up in flames. Hissing a soft syllable, he watches his cock push through the tunnel of Illya's hands in stroke after stroke, the sight so erotic he can hear his pulse pounding in his ears. "God," he murmurs, and when Illya kneads his balls in the palm of his other hand, he thinks he's going to black out.

Illya hums a low note. His hands ghost away -- too suddenly, too soon -- and he's reaching over Napoleon's shoulder toward the nightstand. Excitement dances at the edge of Napoleon's nerves, and he remembers the first time he thought of this possibility, how it drove him over the edge. He mustn't let that happen now. His pride is at stake.

Still, when Illya plunges slicked fingers into him, Napoleon arches on the bed and cries out sharply. It's the culmination of a fantasy, and in that moment Napoleon's bare, vulnerable as he's ever been in his adult life. The world could come crashing down, but if he's here being speared by those magnificent hands, he wouldn't give a damn. It feels like all he's ever wanted.

"Look at you," Illya murmurs. "There are not words in English for how you look right now."

Napoleon looks up through bleary eyes and sees in Illya's gaze something like confusion, something like adoration. He knows the truth in that moment: Illya is lost too.

"Illya," he whispers. "Fuck me."

Illya nods. The smile on his face as he leans over Napoleon is almost fond.

Their mouths come together before their hips do, and when Illya enters him Napoleon sucks Illya's tongue into his mouth and won't let go until the stroke is complete. Full to bursting, hips burning up with electric heat, he wraps his legs around Illya's waist and groans long and loud. The sound fills the room. Illya doesn't groan, but he barely breathes either, letting all his breath out in a sigh when he pulls back before the second stroke.  The next time, they both groan.

Illya buries his face in Napoleon's neck and begins to pump away in earnest. Holding him, arms around his shoulders and palms plastered to his back, Napoleon guides his thrusts. Illya's skin is sticky with sweat, and his muscles go taut and hard with each exertion. His breaths sound in Napoleon's ear in long, shuddering rasps. Napoleon's eyes roll back in his head. It's the very mindless bliss he's been dreaming about for far longer than he cares to admit, and it's every bit as good as he'd expected. Illya inside him is a huge, solid presence, and his heart is thrumming with the excitement and tension of being full to bursting.

And then Illya's thrusts stop, and his breaths quicken and sharpen in Napoleon's ears. A bristle of fear flies through Napoleon. Even lost in passion instead of rage, he doesn't want Illya to take leave of reality. "Peril," he murmurs, stroking Illya's arms. "Illya. It's all right. It's me."

Illya doesn't answer. One hand, which had been solid on Napoleon's hip, begins to twitch.

Napoleon reaches down quickly. He covers that tense hand with his own. "It's all right," he repeats. "You're safe. Let go."

Illya's breaths stop altogether. Slowly, his hand relaxes beneath Napoleon's. Napoleon finds himself holding his breath, too, scared to breathe before Illya. In this moment, they live or die together.

A sharp inhalation next to his ear, and then a warning. "Solo..."

Napoleon can barely restrain the urge to grin. He interlaces his fingers with Illya's and squeezes. "I'm here."

Illya starts moving again, and now it's just sex, the sweet familiar madness Napoleon's so very fond of. The fear falls away and there's just the two of them, naked and safe, surrounded by the warmth radiating from their bodies and the soft sounds of their gasps and grunts. Illya fastens his mouth to Napoleon's skin and sucks, hard and long enough to leave a welt. Napoleon gives a short, throaty cry. He'll wear that mark with perverse pride as long as it lasts. When Illya's rhythm breaks down into erratic, feverish thrusts, Napoleon knows what it means. He runs his hands over Illya's back and hisses encouragements in his ear, coaxing him into orgasm.

Illya's muscles lock up. He growls like a wild animal as it seizes him. A thrill of triumph goes through Napoleon as he holds Illya through his release. He inspired this. He goaded Illya into his bed, and he brought him to this moment. It's more satisfying than any simple physical stimulation has ever been. When Illya captures his mouth in a possessive kiss a minute later, Napoleon's never been so glad to be utterly owned.

He expects that to be the end of it, but after Illya pulls out of him, he doesn't head straight to the restroom to clean up. Instead, he pulls Napoleon close. Napoleon's never seen Illya as a cuddler, but he's not complaining. Being in the arms of someone larger and stronger than he is -- well, he supposes he understands now why women enjoy it so much.

But as it turns out, he's misjudged even that. In another moment, Illya's wrapped one of those glorious large hands around his cock. Napoleon gasps and seizes up. He never expected -- but now Illya's pumping at him with single-minded purpose, like Napoleon's orgasm is his next mission, and if Napoleon knows nothing else he knows Illya doesn't give up on a mission until it's completed. He lets his body sag against Illya's frame and groans unashamedly at each rough stroke. Climax overtakes him quicker than he wants, and he's gasping and shuddering and pulsing against Illya's hand far too soon. He gulps in giant wide breaths and waits for the room to stop spinning around him.

When it comes to balance, he's still in Illya's arms. "That was... entirely unnecessary," he says, although not a bit of him wants Illya to think it was unwanted.

"Was necessary," comes the reply. There's an odd bit of tenderness in Illya's voice. Between it and the now-gentle embrace he's folded around Napoleon, he's become a bit of a pussycat. Who would have thought such an Illya would emerge after sex? Napoleon has half a mind to mock him for it, but he's too deep into his own version of post-coital bliss to summon up the energy. Instead, he simply marvels at what has just transpired. Illya's in his bed. _Satisfied,_ in his bed. Napoleon's always had confidence in his lovemaking skills, but his ego's about to go through the roof.

He takes one of Illya's hands in his and rubs his thumb against the palm, slowly. "Your hands are marvelous," he says. It's a crude understatement, given the scope and length of his fascination, but he has to express it somehow. In response, Illya curls his fingers around Napoleon's. Their hands locked together feel exactly as Napoleon expected. That is, wonderful.

Reality asserts itself in a slow grind, and they let go long enough to clean up and re-dress -- Illya in his clothes from earlier tonight, and Napoleon in a long robe for sleeping in. Illya retreats to the door, and Napoleon follows him, all coy smile and flushed cheeks. "Heading back to your room?"

Illya gives him a glare that's half a smirk. "I would not sleep here," he says. "You talk in your sleep."

Napoleon almost denies it. He almost demands to know how Illya came by that knowledge. Instead, he smiles back and curls his fingers around the nape of Illya's neck, bringing his face down. The kiss lingers for a long moment.

"One more thing you're going to miss when you transfer," Napoleon teases.

Illya looks genuinely lost. "What?"

"Have you forgotten about it? I assure you, I haven't."

Illya fixes him with an icy stare. "I am requesting no transfer."

For the umpteenth time tonight, Napoleon considers a smart answer and decides against it. Not only because of the soft buzzing of his lips in the wake of their kiss. Not only because of the sweet haze of sex still hanging around their bodies. But because Illya's words aren't a denial. They aren't pigheadedness or stubbornness.

They're a promise.


End file.
